Merry Christmas, Sherlock
by petnurser
Summary: I haven't abandoned "Things We Didn't See". I just got a bug in my brain and this is the result. I own nothing.


Christmas Eve. She wasn't expecting him home tonight or for the next few nights for that matter. The case was too compelling, a double murder in Exeter, Devon. Yesterday he and John had packed for a few days and left. Molly supposed she understood. After all, she didn't marry the consulting detective without knowing that "the work" didn't pay attention to the calendar.

Tomorrow was Christmas. The flat at 221B Baker Street was festive and glowing, if a little lonely. The tree and fairy lights all on to make the place feel warm and festive. She really didn't want to wake up alone on the first Christmas she would spend as a wife, but without Sherlock at home, that was what was going to be. She was going over to the Watsons' for Christmas dinner with Mary, Mrs. Hudson and the baby; at least all of Christmas wouldn't be spent alone.

The fireplace was bright, the fire glowing as she watched it burn down. The book she was reading was abandoned to watch the fire, her hand subconsciously caressing her currently flat abdomen. They had agreed to not exchange presents, neither were very materialistic and they had all they thought they wanted in each other. The gifts under the tree were for their friends. A cute outfit and a few toys were for the newest Watson. There was new jumper for John and a silk scarf for Mary. Other gifts were for Greg Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. The Holmes family presents for Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft had already been delivered to their owners last week. As soon as John and Sherlock were back they would plan a simple get together here at 221B.

There was one special gift for Sherlock, however; Molly's lab results that she had drawn yesterday. In a red envelope, on the tree, was a copy of those lab results. Most of the results were normal, she was really quite healthy. The only anomaly was an increased level of HGC, human chorionic gonadotropin. Molly was pregnant.

They had discussed it. They both were open to the idea of having children. They decided that once they married that nature would be allowed to take its natural course meaning no pills, implants or barriers of any kind. Sherlock regaled her with all kinds of statistics: the age of the mother, the age of the father, former and recovering addicts, withdrawal times for various forms of hormonal birth control, and so on. Eventually she shut her then fiancé up with a kiss. She took her last pill the morning that they came home from their honeymoon. Molly's cycle was a little erratic for a short time without the regular hormonal influence but soon self-regulated. A few days ago she started feeling very tired. They attributed it to the holiday preparations and a few extra shifts Molly had volunteered for. Suicides are always up during the holiday season and the pathologists' skills were in demand at St. Bart's. The nausea and the lateness of her menses made the doctor in her connect two and two. That was yesterday, the day Sherlock left. She went to work as scheduled, got the blood drawn on her lunch break and had the results by the end of the day. She hadn't told anyone yet. Her husband would be the second to know unless he had deduced it first. Molly wouldn't put it past him.

Once the fire had burnt itself to embers, Molly turned off all the lights, checked the door, and went to bed. Sleep came easily that night. The bed was comfortable and the coverings warm. Molly drifted off to a peaceful sleep with her husband in her thoughts.

The rain slamming against the bedroom window woke her that Christmas morning as she stretched and wistfully wished Sherlock were home. Molly rose to greet the day. She showered, dressed in festive clothes, and got ready to go to Mary and John's flat. She didn't expect the sudden, horrible wave of nausea to hit. Another shower and a change of clothes later, she was finally out the door.

The Watsons' flat was full of packages and bows, waiting for John to get home before opening them. Mary had told her earlier that once John was home the flat would look like Toys R Us exploded in their sitting room. Molly thought that next year 221B would probably look the same.

Dinner was lovely. The ham cooked to perfection, the sprouts delicious. The wine offered was good, but Molly politely declined, claiming wine gave her a headache. Unfortunately, Molly's appetite was off, probably owing to the morning sickness that had hit her around noon. The little she did eat was roiling around in her stomach threatening to make a second appearance. A quick "excuse me" and she was in the loo.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. "Molly, are you all right?" Mary's voice came through the door, muffled but clear.

"Yes, must have been something I ate." She replied back as she opened the bathroom door.

Mary took in her green look, took a long hard look at her friend and something clicked. "You need some tea."

Molly accepted the weak chamomile tea and sat on her friends' sofa. She knew Mary wasn't stupid and had probably already figured out what was going on. Mary asked Molly carefully, "Is there a chance you could be pregnant, Molly?"

Mrs. Hudson held her hand. "It's OK, dear, we're here for you."

Molly thought _"Is being pregnant that awful?" _She said, "Yes, but Sherlock doesn't know yet. I only confirmed it myself yesterday."

Mary squealed her congratulations and Mrs. Hudson hugged her happily. For the rest of the afternoon and extending into the evening they talked about babies and motherhood. Molly learned that some nappies were rubbish and which wipes were the thickest. They laughed about the second trimester and speculated on how fun it was. Never having children of her own (although Sherlock could behave like one), Mrs. Hudson added her own anecdotes from friends. Eventually the evening wore down and Molly made her way home.

The cab ride was quiet. Molly's mind wandered to thoughts of Sherlock with a baby. She could see tender moments but also horrifying ones. There were soft cuddles and Billy the Skull. She saw funny bedtime stories and crime scenes. They could discuss limits later. Now, she needed to get home and get some rest.

The flat at Baker Street seemed dark and quiet. Mrs. Hudson had come home much earlier and was, apparently, asleep. She climbed the stairs and opened the door. She could feel the fatigue grow with every step. A few more steps, keys to unlock the door, and she stepped inside her home.

The fire was gently burning and there were candles scattered throughout the flat. It was warm, romantic. On the sofa was Sherlock Holmes, sleeping.

He couldn't have been home that long. He was still in his usual attire of a button down shirt and dress pants. His woolen coat wrapped around him like a blanket. At home he usually wore a well-worn lounge pants and an old, soft t-shirt. Sleeping, street clothes, coat on, John not being home when she left the Watsons' all pointed to a recent arrival time.

She hung up her coat and walked over to the sofa and kneeled down. Molly Holmes gently traced the contours of his face with her index finger. His face twitched due to the unexpected stimulus. His blue eyes opened slowly and focused on his beloved wife's brown.

"Welcome home."

"I could say the same," he gently countered.

"Did you solve the case?"

"Not yet. But all the rest of the work can be done from London. How was the Watsons' Christmas Dinner?"

"Good. We laughed a lot, the food was good. I think we should have everyone over in the next few days, leave New Year's to us alone. I've missed you."

"And I, you. I was only gone for two days, though."

"That's enough for me."

"I never thought that I'd agree, Molly, but I do. It was far too long." Sherlock Holmes stood up and cradled his wife's head with his hands. He then lowered his lips to hers and kissed her as if his life depended on it. He felt that in some way, her love for him did keep him and make him feel alive. When he opened his eyes he saw the tree as Molly's back was to it. He then saw the red envelope that wasn't there when he left for the case. He was a little confused as to why he didn't see it before, but he was tired and intent on making the flat seem more romantic for his bride of four months. From where he stood, he could make out the "S" of a name, his name. He looked down at Molly and said, "I thought we weren't exchanging gifts?"

"We're not. This just sort of came up."

Sherlock released his wife and strode over to the tree. He didn't miss Molly's worrying of her lower lip. Whatever this was, it made her nervous and was important. He took the envelope off the tree, opened it and frowned. "This is blood chemistry results. All it says, Molly is that you are healt…. Oh."

"Oh."

"So, getting together. It can wait a few days, right?"

Molly Holmes smiled at the social awkwardness her husband still had. "Yes, it can."

A wide grin took over his face. "Good, we are going to celebrate Christmas. Alone. This is the best gift I ever could have gotten, Molly. Thank you."

"You are half responseable, too, you know."

"True, but, nonetheless, still the best."

He effortlessly picked up the petite pathologist and carried her to their bedroom. Their fatigue forgotten until much later, after they celebrated Christmas in their own way.


End file.
